


hissing little rattlesnake

by kusemono (Glitchgoat)



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mirror Sex, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 15:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16935951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitchgoat/pseuds/kusemono
Summary: “It’s really none of your business.”“Words no innocent person has ever said.”“Okay, then what are you doing, then?” Yamato snaps back; he’s such an angry kid.Yuki taps his chin and smiles thinly. “Well, that’s not really any of your business, is it, Yamato-kun?”





	hissing little rattlesnake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [associate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/associate/gifts).



> all fired up and, ultimately, afraid, so slam the door
> 
> yamato is 18 and yuki is 22 so they're both still in the middle of working on being less of assholes

Yuki wonders how tacky it would be to get drunk this early in the evening, and then, as a follow-up, he wonders how much the answer to that question (which is, of course, “extremely”) is going to stop him.

Verdict: less than it should, but still more than he wants it to.

Shizuo-san invited him; he’s entertaining tonight, and—that woman’s – house is full to bursting with people, actors and musicians and public figures.

Yuki feels like kind of an ass, truth be told. He doesn’t _really_ want to be here all that much, but he didn’t want to be rude.

… he didn’t want to be rude _to Shizuo-san._ Despite Momo’s best efforts he’s still working on not being outstandingly rude to anyone else. (What this means is that he’ll eventually have to deal with the fallout from the fact that he’s walked away mid-conversation (mid- _sentence_ ) from more than one woman whose name he should but does not know, but that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Yuki.)

There are more important things for him to pay attention to.

Namely: Yamato is present and may just be the only person who wants to be here less than Yuki does.

Yamato has been ignoring him, but that’s nothing new, and it doesn’t stop Yuki from periodically scanning the room to keep a tab on where Yamato is. He’s been lurking around the edges of every conversation, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes narrowed, brow dropped into a permanent look of at best mild irritation, and at worst outright contempt. Any time he notices Yuki looking at him, his expression tilts a bit harder towards contempt and he slinks away into the crowd.

Yamato can be exhausting, certainly – not quite over his teenage rebellion even at 18, and in fact only growing more bitter and frustrated with time as he hasn’t had the chance to move out yet. Even so, he’s the only person aside from Shizuo-san who Yuki has even the most _passing_ of interest in seeing at this ridiculous function, and since Shizuo-san is quite occupied, Yuki has made a bit of a private game of finding Yamato. It’s almost like a children’s game-book, but the character he’s searching for is a surly glasses-wearing teenager in a crowd of people more famous than him.

Yamato vanishes for longer than usual, and Yuki can’t find him; presumably, he’s slipped away to some corner, or maybe just abandoned pretense and abandoned the party altogether. Yuki’s almost envious.

…

But without even _that_ much entertainment, Yuki figures he can do a better job on his own.

…

So, no, slipping away from a dinner party to go jack off in the bathroom is probably significantly tackier than getting drunk this early in the evening, but he’s even less willing to let that stop him.

*

Yuki finds the closest bathroom, and also finds that it’s occupied by the time he gets there. He glances up and down the hall, back towards where Shizuo-san is entertaining his guests and up into the unknown. He has no particular interest in wandering around the house, and it’s not as if he’s in any particular rush.

Still.

He raps his knuckles against a closed-tight bathroom door, just in case.

“Dammit,” a familiar voice mutters from the other side of the door hisses, then picks up in volume to be heard more properly. “Occupied. One second.”

Yuki quirks an eyebrow, listening. “Hello, Yamato-kun. I was wondering where you’d gone.”

A beat of silence.

“Dammit,” Yamato’s voice behind the door repeats, much louder and clearer. A moment later the door cracks open and there Yamato stands, glaring out from behind his glasses. He clearly gave up on presentability when he realized who was interrupting—well.

(Maybe they had the same idea.)

 “What do you want?”

Yuki peers over his shoulder into the bathroom behind him, then at Yamato himself. He’s already thrown off his waistcoat and tie, discarded a crumpled heap on the floor; his dress shirt is untucked, and the collar undone. He’s not surprised, exactly; Yamato looked for all the world like he was suffocating in formalwear. (Which is a shame, because it’s a good look on him, but there’s definitely something to be said for dishevelment.)

Yuki invites himself in, ignoring the look of bewilderment that Yamato gives him and the awkward way he shifts on his feet as Yuki shoulders the door open.

“Do you mind?” Yamato says testily.

“Not at all,” Yuki says, and though he looks away, he catches Yamato’s look of disgust in the mirror; he smiles to himself. “I _was_ wondering where you’d run off to,” he says, resting his weight on the bathroom counter.

Yamato is left reeling, but he picks up the pieces quickly. “You come looking for me or something?” he scoffs.

“No, finding you is just a pleasant side-effect,” Yuki says, smiling. Yamato grimaces.

When it becomes apparent to him that Yuki is in no hurry to leave –or do anything else – Yamato resigns himself to his fate, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. For a few awkward moments, that’s all there is to it—just him and Yamato staring at each other, the faint sounds of famous people being entertained drifting through the walls.

The atmosphere is oppressive, and Yamato is the one to break it.

“The old man give you that suit?” he says. He’s almost certainly biting his tongue on a more explicit accusation regarding what he did to earn it, judging by how he’s quirked up an eyebrow and curled his lip. He has more tact than to say it outright, but he’s never been particularly shy about his theories about how Yuki’s interactions with his father play out.

(Not that he’s wholly wrong, but that’s not the point.)

Yuki supposes that it would be prudent to dodge the question to keep such things out of mind. However, he also has all the tact and prudence of an oncoming train. So.

Choo choo, motherfucker.

“He did pay for it, yes,” Yuki says and glances down to inspect his own lapel with mild curiosity, allowing him to conveniently pretend he misses seeing Yamato’s momentary scowl. “I didn’t have anything more appropriate to wear, so it was a nice gesture.”

Yamato’s frown deepens, and he glances away contemptuously; Yuki follows his gaze to the crumpled clothes he’s discarded. “Yeah. If you’re gonna become one of them, you’d better look the part, right?”

There’s a lot to unpack there, but he’s not Yamato’s life coach.

“It should be obvious that I want to be out there as little as you do, Yamato-kun,” he says, tapping a finger to his own chin in thought. “Unless you think I slipped away from the lively conversation because of an urgent need to relieve myself, which was also miraculously not urgent enough that I couldn’t then spend numerous minutes making idle conversation with you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Yamato says dully, “you do seem to put antagonizing me at a pretty high premium.”

“I’m not blocking the door,” Yuki points out, inclining his head towards it. “You’re free to leave.”

Yamato seems a bit struck by the bluntness, which really, he ought to have gotten used to by now. He opens and closes his mouth a couple times in search of a searing retort that does not come.

“You look like a goldfish,” Yuki says.

“Fuck off.”

Yamato, tellingly, makes no effort to leave, despite his harsh words— though Yuki admits to himself that may well be reluctance to return to the throng of people as much as it is enjoying Yuki’s company. He’ll still take it.

“So what were you up to that brought you here?” Yuki says, glancing around as though the bathroom walls hold any secrets. “Hoping someone would notice you were gone and come looking for you? Or are you sick, maybe? Should I go get something for your stomach?”

Yamato visibly blanches, though Yuki’s not sure what part does the trick. “You always know the worst possible thing to say, don’t you,” he says, voice flat.

“Yes. But that’s not answering my question.”

“It’s really none of your business.” That’s practically an admission of guilt.

“Words no innocent person has ever said.”

“Okay, then what are _you_ doing slinking off to the bathroom, then?” Yamato snaps back; _he’s such an angry kid._

Yuki taps his chin and smiles thinly. “Well, that’s not really any of your business, is it, Yamato-kun?”

Yamato’s expression could only more clearly read ‘disgust’ if he wrote it across his forehead in waterproof marker. “I don’t know why I expected you to answer that seriously.”

Yuki smiles thinly, shrugs one shoulder, and humors Yamato. “I decided I could do a better job of entertaining myself than anyone out there, and,” he gestures with one hand, “decency suggests I do it here.”

Yamato stares at him for a long moment, scrutinizing his expression. He doesn’t give Yamato much to work with, and as a result, Yamato seems to be having trouble deciding whether or not he’s kidding. He shares his verdict after a moment. “You’re full of it.”

There’s a joke somewhere here.  
“Not at all, Yamato-kun.” He tilts his head. “It’s what you were doing, right?”

Yamato clams up in a way that Yuki can only read as proof that he hit the nail on the head.

(As if the fact that he was awkwardly trying to hide a half-erection when Yuki came in wasn’t proof enough.)

“… gross,” Yamato sneers after a moment, turning his head away. “Don’t make weird assumptions like that.”

“But I’m right,” Yuki says flatly, and shrugs one shoulder. He stands up straight, brushes his hair away from his face, and glances at Yamato—and, pointedly, at the front of his pants, and he chuckles when Yamato instinctively tries to adjust to hide himself. “If it was the case, I was thinking perhaps we could be mutually beneficial. You clearly don’t want to be out there, and I miss your company.”

A heavy pause, broken by, “… why do you have to put things the _weirdest goddamn way_.”

“That’s half the fun, Yamato-kun,” Yuki says serenely, then taps his chin. “Is that a yes, then?”

Yamato glances to the side. “Lock the door, at least.”

Yuki hums an aimless short tune as he does so, and while he does, Yamato kind of awkwardly takes the backwards-leaning against the counter position that Yuki had been occupying a moment prior, supporting his weight on the heels of his hands.

Yuki was really expecting more of an argument, or maybe even for Yamato to storm off in disgust, so he won’t deny that he’s pleased. Perhaps it’s more about Yamato’s disdain for everything his father does than any desire to be around Yuki, but.

Whatever, he’ll still take it.

Yuki draws in close, reaches down to palm at Yamato through his pants, but—

“— hold on,” Yamato says, probably a bit more blurted than he intends. Without waiting for a response, he shoves Yuki off and away; before Yuki can really form the thought that maybe he’s pushed a bit too hard this time, Yamato turns around so that his back is pressed to Yuki’s front. He keeps his eyes down, staring at the bathroom counter, and he grips the ledge thereof so tightly his knuckles start to pale. “Didn’t want to have to look at your face,” he says by way of explanation. It’s a farce, but Yuki decides not to call him on it.

(He chooses not to remind Yamato of bathroom mirror. He’ll realize it soon enough.)

“Is that so?” he says instead, tucking his arms around Yamato’s midsection. “Well, I’m hurt, Yamato-kun.” He pulls him closer and grinds up against him in the same motion. Yamato shudders underneath him, even though there’s still multiple layers of clothing between them. It’s cute, but he’s fairly certain he’d get elbowed in the stomach if he said so. (He briefly debates saying so anyway.)

When he trails one hand down to the front of Yamato’s pants, he – to absolutely no surprise – is met with his dick hardening underneath the fabric. He barely trails his fingers across the faint but growing-more-pronounced bulge, and Yamato huffs a breath that’s just a bit too heavy to be casual.

(Yuki’s already hard enough that his own pants are starting to get uncomfortable; hiding that is both impossible at this juncture, and something he has no interest in doing, but he doesn’t want to – well. Not _scare Yamato off_ , but he always requires coaxing to get comfortable.)

“Don’t really care if you’re hurt or not,” Yamato mumbles.

Yuki hums. “Well, thank you for letting me see your face, even if you insist on being so very hurtful about mine. Very considerate of you.”

Yamato goes tense and glances up at the bathroom mirror over the top of his glasses, struck with the devastating realization that, surprise of all surprises, the mirror is reflective.

 “… well, yeah,” he says, feigning confidence in that way that only teenagers can, but he’s lost some of his angry bravado. “If I keep my eyes down then I still don’t have to look at your face. So. S’fine.”

(Yamato’s face is cute, though, so Yuki doesn’t really see the big deal, but if he wants to be picky—well, actually, that’s not going to stop Yuki at all, but he’ll let him think he’s won.)

“Is that so,” he says again, airy and light and he couldn’t imply _I don’t believe you’re telling the truth_ without explicitly saying so; Yamato averts his eyes as Yuki tries to catch them in the mirror. “Don’t move your hands, Yamato-kun,” he says into the back of Yamato’s neck, hands on his hips.

Yamato glances up at Yuki in the mirror, and begins pointedly lifting his hands, presumably out spite. ( _He’s such an angry kid.)_ Before he can get far with it, Yuki – undeterred – begins undoing his belt for him, and Yamato’s hands fall back to the counter, balled into fists.

He lets Yuki work uninterrupted. With surprising deftness, considering he’s working mostly blind, he undoes Yamato’s fly, tucks his thumbs under the waistband, and tugs his pants down, leaving his boxers where they are. Yamato wriggles his hips a bit to help his pants come off, and in a few moments, they’re tangled around his ankles.

“See, was that so difficult?” Yuki says, his hands drifting back up to grab at Yamato through his underwear instead of waiting for an answer. There’s already a small damp spot at the front where the head of his dick was pressed against the fabric. “I see you’re already excited.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Yamato mutters, but he just-barely shifts his hips forward into Yuki’s touch.

“Would you like me to leave you to whatever you were doing before I interrupted you, if I aggrieve you so?” Despite his dramatic choice of phrasing, it’s a serious enough offer.

“No,” Yamato says a bit faster than he wants to; Yuki smiles like a self-satisfied cat, and Yamato grimaces at himself. Attempting to divert, he coughs conspicuously and grinds back against Yuki’s still-concealed dick. “Unless you’re actually planning to just stand here and dry hump me all evening, in which case, yeah, piss off so I can jack off alone.”

“Patience, Yamato-kun. You _can_ just say you want it without having to act so ts—”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Yamato says, ice-cold even as his face warms up. “Just get a move on it.”

Yuki contemplates the best course of action for a moment. He considers his options, really weighs how long they’ve been missing, how long it will probably be before someone else will stumble their way towards this bathroom, sloshed on shitty but expensive alcohol.

Luckily enough, Yuki is just full of ideas.  
“Yamato-kun, keep your legs together,” he says, placing one hand on Yamato’s hip, fingers splayed out. He taps his fingers like playing the piano, waiting for his request to be honored. (Because he likes being difficult, he’s still idly grabbing at Yamato’s dick with the other hand all the while.)

Yamato, unsurprisingly, does not do what Yuki asks. “What?” he says, glancing over his shoulder even though it’d be far easier to just glare into the mirror, but hey, it’s his prerogative.

“So I can fuck your thighs,” Yuki says – no point in beating around the bush—and Yamato furrows his brow in vague bemusement. His dick reacts to Yuki’s proposition, but neither of them choose to comment on it.

(It’s easy to forget, Yuki supposes, that Yamato actually doesn’t have that much – if any – experience outside of him, and… well, he’s not about to make any uncouth assumptions, but he wouldn’t be terribly surprised if most of the porn he watched veered towards _heterosexual and basic_ , so it might not be his first thought.)

“Couldn’t I just. Blow you or something,” Yamato mutters halfheartedly. It’s definitely not an unattractive prospect—

(meaning: the idea of Yamato on his knees makes Yuki’s dick jump to attention in ways he might have to examine later, but probably won’t)

— but his way is more efficient, among other things.

Yuki drums his fingers expectantly against Yamato’s hip again; Yamato scowls for a moment, then complies, shifting a bit awkwardly.

“Good, Yamato-kun.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Yamato snaps with an icy stare over his shoulder; Yuki is unfazed.

“You did what I asked.” _For once_. “I was just appreciating that fact.”

“Keep it to yourself, then,” Yamato mutters, turning away again and glaring down at the counter as if it had personally wronged him. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Least of all from him, Yuki is certain; he doesn’t bother to argue the point.  
He withdraws his hands just long enough to get out of his pants, underwear and all, and lets them fall just low enough to pull his dick out.  
He presses himself up against Yamato’s back again, and in doing so, he realizes that Yamato’s leaving almost no space between himself and the counter. Yuki, ever-helpful, hums and takes it upon himself to tug him by the hips into a better position.

Okay, so maybe he’s just pulling him backwards to grind on his ass (and really lament the fact that he doesn’t have anything that would work as lube, because it’s _really_ a shame, but he hasn’t quite picked up the habit of always having it on-hand just yet—), but it does give him the space to snake one arm around Yamato again. With the other, he trails one finger down Yamato’s arm before covering Yamato’s hand with his own.

“You’re so troublesome, Yamato-kun.”

“You don’t have a lot of room to talk,” Yamato mutters, glancing down at Yuki’s hand. He doesn’t pull his own away, but the temptation is clearly there.

“I never claimed to.”

Yamato lifts his head, about to drawl some sort of retort, but he cuts himself off to hiss when Yuki shifts his hips and slips his dick into the space between his legs. It’s not particularly graceful, skin against skin and thin fabric, and Yamato jerks forward in mild shock.

It takes a few awkward thrusts before it starts getting easier, but they fall into it in time. Part of it is Yamato getting more used to the stance; part of it is what slickness Yuki’s own precum provides; part of it is just getting both of them into the rhythm of it.

Timing with a rock of his hips, Yuki drags his fingers along the underside of his dick through the fabric. He’s rewarded handsomely for it; Yamato groans, his voice wavering just-so. “Fuck--!”

( _He really does have a nice voice,_ Yuki finds himself thinking. _Shame he doesn’t sing_.)

But he’s being a bit too bold, a bit too loud. Yuki has no intention of being found with Shizuo’s son bent over a bathroom sink just because said son hasn’t quite learned how to self-muffle yet, so he lifts his free hand and taps the pads of two fingers against Yamato’s lips. He supposes he _could_ just cover his mouth, but—

Well.

… he wants to do it this way.

Yamato resolutely presses his lips thin, refuses to give Yuki an in, and glares wordlessly into the mirror.

“Don’t want to get caught, Yamato-kun,” Yuki says, says like he’s reminding a child of something obvious. Yamato doesn’t really seem to appreciate the tone, but that’s really not Yuki’s problem.

Yamato doesn’t seem willing to give.

That’s alright.

Yuki just kind of pushes on anyway, and a rock of Yuki’s hips paired with loosely wrapping his other hand around Yamato’s clothed dick coaxes his mouth open on a gasp, and Yuki takes the chance to tuck those two invading digits into Yamato’s mouth.

“Good boy,” he murmurs.

The noise Yamato makes is somewhere between anger, horror, and – most interestingly – a groan, and his cheeks flush pink. He attempts to say something, but unsurprisingly, it gets garbled; what comes through loud and clear, though, is the way his dick leaps under Yuki’s other hand.

“And here I thought you didn’t want to hear that,” Yuki muses, dragging his fingers along Yamato’s length as he rocks a bit harder. Yamato shudders, and Yuki hums, pleased. “Be a good boy,” his dick jumps again, “and suck on my fingers, Yamato-kun?”

He doesn’t actually expect the request to _work_ , but Yamato is full of surprises.

It takes him a second, but he lowers his eyes and complies. Yuki rocks his hips and ventures a third finger into Yamato’s mouth, which Yamato allows him to do without protest.

Well, with Yamato’s mouth occupied, Yuki can go a little harder, then, right?

(Right.)

It’s not all _that_ different from actually fucking him, really; Yamato still tries not to make noise and fails at it even muffled on Yuki’s fingers; he still blushes so hot that it reaches the back of his neck; he still rocks his hips back with each of Yuki’s movements, using the excuse of it being involuntary to pretend he’s less eager than he is.

Really, all of that handily makes up for the fact that Yamato’s thighs really aren’t a replacement for his ass. (It _almost_ makes up for the fact that he has to be at this party in the first place. It’s definitely better than jacking off alone.)

(Yamato is so _cute_ when he lets himself be, but he just has to put on the confrontational airs all the time. It seems so exhausting.)

Yamato seems to be in agreement; it’s not long before he makes another half-strangled noise around Yuki’s fingers, a half-hearted attempt to give warning. A moment later, a few more thrusts between his legs, another couple of loose strokes through his boxers, and he’s done for; his cock jerks as Yuki works him through the orgasm. A shudder runs through his whole body; he practically trembles, and Yuki wonders if he might crumple if he wasn’t supported on the counter.

Really, he did admirably.

“Good boy,” he murmurs again; Yamato almost whines around his fingers, eyes closed tightly so he doesn’t have to face himself in the mirror. “Good boy, Yamato-kun, just a little –”

(Every time he says it Yamato makes that noise again, and Yuki’s filing _that_ fact away for future reference.)

Yamato makes another muffled noise (possibly of half-hearted protest, but Yuki will never know for sure) when Yuki – _finally_ – slips his hand under the band of Yamato’s now-messy boxers. In return, Yuki shoves his fingers just a little further into Yamato’s mouth, and he almost gags. Yamato’s dick is still twitching when Yuki wraps slim fingers around it and his hips buck, unsure if he’s trying to pull away or get more. Either way, Yamato goes tense, which has the side-effect of squeezing his thighs around Yuki’s dick. Yuki takes the opportunity, arcs forward to gain more leverage, and fucks harder.

The tension in Yuki’s stomach reaches its peak in short order, and he has the thought to pull back just before it snaps. With just the tip of his cock between Yamato’s legs, he comes, huffing another bit of un-asked-for praise as it his him like a punch to the gut.

Yuki holds that position for a few long moments, closing his eyes and letting his forehead rest between Yamato’s shoulder blades as his breathing returns to normal. He lifts his head and glances down, catches the sight of his cum dripping obscenely down the insides of Yamato’s barely-shaking thighs, and commits that image to memory.

Contented, he withdraws his hand from Yamato’s rapidly-softening dick, wiping the mess across his boxers. (They’re already messy, so Yuki doesn’t feel too bad, even when Yamato grimaces around Yuki’s fingers.)

He ducks back in to presses a kiss to the back of Yamato’s neck, and slowly pulls the digits out of Yamato’s mouth. He hums, trailing spit-slick fingers up Yamato’s face and – as a parting shot – across his glasses.

“You’re so fucking gross, Yuki-san,” Yamato murmurs hoarsely with no bite to his words, but the honorific sounds sarcastic. He scowls ineffectually at Yuki in the mirror.

Yuki smiles serenely. He doesn’t _comment_ that it’s the first time Yamato has deigned to us his name, but he does _notice_ it. “Did you enjoy it, Yamato-kun?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, then.”

Yamato doesn’t see fit to say another word to Yuki as he roughly cleans himself up. Yuki offers to help, and Yamato spits back something about _haven’t you harassed me enough for one night_. The answer is, of course, no.

After all, he has to go back out without his underwear, and he’s a damn fool if he thinks that Yuki is going to let that opportunity go.

But he’ll let him think he’s won, for now.

He’s such a cute kid.

**Author's Note:**

> commission for my third-favorite carnivorous gelatinous mass defiantly maintaining a human form [ian](https://twitter.com/arcsein) !
> 
> follow me on [the twitter](https://twitter.com/glitchgoats) and you too can pay me cash money to write porn that nobody but you wants and we can inflict it on this fandom together


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